


The Problem of the Untold Story

by navaan



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied Relationships, M/M, POV First Person, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-07 07:15:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12836034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navaan/pseuds/navaan
Summary: What Watson writes about Reichenbach he writes to keep a secretimplied Holmes/Moriarty and hints of Holmes/Watson





	The Problem of the Untold Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tripleransom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tripleransom/gifts).



> [Also here at holmestice.](https://holmestice.dreamwidth.org/455953.html)

In late 1893, when London society and many readers abroad saw the publishing of what I expected to be my final written account of my adventures with one Sherlock Holmes, it felt to me like the world had been holding its breath for this moment. In truth I now think I was the only person who was holding his breath with a marked unease at the publishing of this particular story. I had not yet stopped feeling Holmes' absence from my life as a great loss, but the publisher had long pushed me to write about that fateful day at Reichenbach to satisfy and - on account of my publisher's interests, who was first and foremost a businessman - exploit the public interest that still surrounded the legacy of my famous friend. 

I still hadn't quite settled into the realization that he was gone and was indeed never going to return, because I, and only I, knew what had happened that day. I still held a final thread of hope and for the longest time I had been reluctant to let it go. For that reason I had put off writing this for as long as I could, but as Holmes had predicted, after all the years of writing about the cases which I'd had the honour of being involved in, it would have seemed strange if I'd not sat down to write about this one. The public wanted a last act to the story.

For my own reasons I had dismissed the thought at first, but finally had realized that I needed the closure, if I wanted to move on from this.

Holmes had never thought much of my books and reports of our cases, but he had tolerated my publishing of them with his cynical way of accepting the fancies of the unobservant. “Half of it is fiction, Watson,” he had admonished me regularly, as if that was the gravest insult to his art. Although at a later time he admitted that he couldn’t let me publish them if they were too accurate.

“I can’t give all my secrets away,” he had told me with flourish and picked up his violin one evening to play a variation. “And you can’t either, my dear Watson. So write your fiction if you must.”

It was hard still to think of the rooms in 221B Baker Street as empty and forgotten. As far as I knew they hadn’t been touched under the direction of Sherlock’s brother Mycroft. I knew too much of the reasoning for it that he might have to preserve his brother’s abode to care and get involved. After waiting for so long, I did not want to hold on to the hope that Holmes had come to his senses and would return.

His “death” had been his decision.

And Holmes had been very firm with me on how he wanted the facts of his own demise to be reported. “They’ll ask for the whole story, Watson. You’ve brought this on yourself. The truth is out of the question, of course, but I’m sure you _reported_ on enough of our cases that you can give me an honourable end that explains why I won't return from this journey. You’ll know what to do.”

I remembered the shock as he laid out his plans for the near future, the plan he'd come up with to end the rivalry with his enemy Moriarty, while we were sitting in our train compartment that was bringing us closer and closer to Paris. Then, he had not yet known that he wouldn't _want_ to return. He had been convinced that his life was in danger – and I knew now he had been right. I remembered the urgency and the slightly feverish look in his eyes, as he said: “This is a game, Watson, more deadly than I had first thought and yet so much easier to solve than it seemed, perhaps.” 

Later I would learn that letters had been exchanged at different stages of our journey via associated across Europe.

I couldn't forget the serious look in his eyes as he asked me: “How many people do you know who I would call truly my equal? I asked myself so often what I would have been like if I'd decided to use my knowledge of crime not for solving but committing... Never mind. Moriarty _is_ truly my equal. I still hope we can come to an agreement.” He only gave me sparse details of when their meetings, their conversations had taken place and the longer I listened the more I wanted to forget I had ever heard it. The two of them had had a few confrontations that must have unsettled Holmes.

“He knows I'll be a thorn in his side till he manages to get rid of me and I know I can't let him go on pulling the strings of crime across the country – across the continent, Watson! We're at an impasse and yet it must end – one way or another.”

“It sounds like you're going to destroy each other!”

“Our convictions may,” my friends said, but his composure seemed to return.

I remember his words very clearly, although two years had come and gone since he had said them to me. To this day I couldn't stop thinking about the hidden meaning, the thoughts he must have concealed from me.

There were questions I wanted to ask that would never be answered.

My poor Mary had died the previous winter. And when one copy of the Strand arrived with my untrue account of events, I had no person to share my grief and thoughts with. I gave my story a cursory glance to see that everything was in order and then put it away and out of my mind. I wanted to move on now. My first real venture into fiction was a nice enough literary achievement if I were to believe my editor, and yet I couldn't feel proud of it.

With my revolver in hand I had watched Holmes agree to Moriarty's terms, had seen the sharp spark of interest in Holmes eyes, when the slightly hunched over professor told him: “Get into the coach and we'll never return to your dear England. You precious society will be safe from me.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you'll leave your organization behind...?”

“Organization? You've made sure there isn't much left I can return to, Holmes. Don't mock me. I know things are in motion. Documents have been seized. I lost a venerable amount of power and wealth, thanks to you. Someone will have to make it up to me.”

At the time I wasn't quite sure what Moriarty was asking of Holmes. I was scared for my friend. Never before had I seen Holmes so convinced that this might be his end as when we rushed across Europe, Moriarty's many accomplices at our heels. 

“It's better in my line of work to leave things behind before someone with an equal lust for power finds a weakness and tries to be your heir by means of assassination,” the professor continued very calmly. “For years I was thinking about choosing the right time to leave and find a new challenge. Are you saying, Holmes,” - and while he was addressing Holmes he gave me a passing glance at the words, and it was not a friendly one - “that you have never felt that way? Death will afford both of us the freedom to do so, don't you think?”

I stiffened at the threat, my hand going to my old and trusted army revolver.

Beside me, Holmes laughed. As always my friend was his usual collected self and only someone who knew him well would have seen the mark of the last weeks on him. “I can't in all truth say I never felt that way, no.”

Even then, I knew it was true.

And like thunder was striking from the grey skies of Switzerland, Moriarty said: “Then come with me. I'll make sure it won't be boring for either of us.”

I was too shocked to laugh or say anything. Surely the maniac did not think for a moment that Holmes would leave everything behind to travel with someone like him - a man who had been trying to kill him for weeks.

“I'll come with you,” Holmes said with any easy finality, “if you'll swear to keep yourself occupied with a less sinister sort of business from now on. And I want to be sure my friends and associated are safe from your revenge.”

To my astonishment I saw the man in the coach lean forward and smile. His dark eyes were glittering, but with friendly excitement. He seemed to be looking forward to a new journey with an interesting travel companion and when I looked over at Holmes I saw the expression mirrored on his face.

I stood there mouth agape, as Holmes squeezed my shoulders, left his final instructions and got into the coach as if they would be back in an hour or so.

“I'll be dead, Watson,” were his parting words to me, a reminder, that my task in this was to keep his – _their_ – secret.

* * *

The letter arrived a few weeks after the “Final Problem” had been published. It had been posted in Greece, but from what I knew it had likely been passed to different hands before it had been posted and gave no real indication of the senders location. Inside the envelope there was a single card and there was only one sentence written on it in a familiar script:

_Such a dramatic end, Watson?_

No name or address was attached to it, but I knew the handwriting too well to need any more indication of authorship.

I let myself sag in my chair with the relief of knowing that at least Holmes was alive.

* * *

After the long years of intimacy with Sherlock Holmes I had developed an interest in crime and it hadn't been shaken by his absence. And wherever Holmes now was, I could not believe that he would have given up on his work – even though I had to assume he was still travelling with his nemesis, the man he'd himself had called the Napoleon of crime.

I had followed the dismantling of some of Moriarty's operations here in London and had kept an eye on the papers to learn if there were hints for what had indeed happened to what was left of it. My trust in Holmes was unbroken and I believed that he would not stand for crime committed when it was in his power to prevent it, but I had trouble believing to an equal degree that Moriarty could have left his old life of crime behind – and even if he _had_ , what was to stop his lieutenants to take over his net of connections?

Over the years I had learned from Holmes and I tried my best to apply his methods, but I had before failed to see the connections by which Holmes had become aware of Moriarty's existence and I now, too, failed to find any hint of them, although I could not be sure if it was because I was unskilled in the art of detection or because there was indeed nothing to find.

Nonetheless I did not give up and when my practice left me the time I looked through the papers for the sort of cases that would have drawn Holmes attention. Sometimes I took enough of an interest to even venture out to look at the scenes of some of these crimes.

Later I would learn that I passed Holmes in the street more than three times before he revealed himself to me as a strange old book collector with a sharp, wizened face.

* * *

Sometime after his sudden and unannounced return we sat together by the fire in 221B Baker Street again. It was like Reichenbach had never happened. On the day of his return Holmes had related in very short detail how Moran and the likes of him had made his return to England necessary. He did not say word about Moriarty or when they had separated or on what terms. The lack of urgency or unease told me that there was no danger for Holmes though, not after Moran had been taken care of. But perhaps my own small investigations had sharpened my eye for the clues Holmes so often relied on when he dazzled people with his insights, because I hadn't missed the stack of letters Holmes had left on the table - and the one on top that gave no forwarding address, only an M in dark black ink sprang out at me.

“A fall of that height,” Holmes said and he was talking, of course, about the story that I had written about his honourable end that now needed to be explained away. “Quite dramatic, but effective.”

“It explained why there was no body,” I said, defiantly.

“Fair enough.” Holmes only laughed and sipped his tea. “It is good to see you Watson. Good to be home.”

Comfortably, I let myself sink into the arm chair.

Things had returned to the way I preferred them.


End file.
